


Warm these old bones

by TetrodotoxinB



Series: Whumptober 2020 [21]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Chronic Pain, Day 21, How did this happen to us?, Hurt/Comfort, I'm just as confused as you are honestly, Just good old fashioned, No one gets broken or tortured, Whumptober 2020, and gentleness, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27127448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB
Summary: Geralt has chronic pain. Jaskier helps.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947493
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Warm these old bones

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [aravenwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood) for her extreme kindness in being willing to beta all of these whumptober fills! Especially so since she's also writing her own (amazing!) fics too! Please go check her out and give her some love!!!

Winter comes early this year, and Jaskier finds himself still on the road with Geralt as the first frosts come. Jaskier is, of course, ill-prepared for such a meteorological event, but it appears as though Geralt well ought to be. He wears several layers as a matter of course, and is well-muscled enough that Jaskier can’t imagine him not enduring the harshest of winters with anything more than indifference. 

But as the days stay cooler and each night is more frigid than the last, they rise slower and travel less. Though surprised, Jaskier understands. His body aches in the cold nights and he wakes stiff and miserable, his bones creaking as he forces his joints to bend. It makes sense that Geralt — who feels pain just fine despite his many lies — would be similarly, if maybe less, afflicted. 

Instead, after a week of frosty nights, Jaskier observes Geralt fumbling with Roach’s cinch. Jaskier considers helping but knows that Geralt would never deign to allow anyone to touch Roach, much less trust them to fasten her saddle on correctly. So he watches for a moment, files that information away, and returns to packing up his bedroll. 

They stop at midmorning for Roach to “rest,” though she’s barely even warmed up. Jaskier watches Geralt hobble pathetically around the small clearing, obviously pained by something, and against what little better judgment he has, he asks, “Geralt, you seem like you’re in pain. Are you alright?”

Geralt stops and glares at Jaskier, issuing forth a quiet grunt of dissatisfaction, and turns towards Roach. He mounts up and he turns her back towards the road, her hooves crunching in the frozen dew as she moves. 

“Wait! Geralt!” Jaskier calls after his recalcitrant witcher. After a short jog, Jaskier catches up to Roach and Geralt. “Geralt, I know you’re an intensely private man and I respect that. But I am also, more or less, let’s say _invested,_ in your overall well being. That said, you seem to be a bit, mm, how do I put it?-”

“In pain?” Geralt mutters.

“Yes, that would probably be the most accurate term for it. I was going to go with ‘old’ or possibly ‘decrepit,’ but I’m sure you know better. So, what’s the source of your ‘pain,’ Geralt?” 

Geralt grunts, this particular tone conveying annoyance, and flicks the reins, urging Roach along at a trot. Jaskier mutters something about “fucking witchers and their tender feelings” and jogs along behind Roach, his lute bouncing against his ass every step of the way. 

They don’t make it more than half a mile before Geralt slows Roach to a gentle walk, and though it takes Jaskier a while yet to both catch up and catch his breath, he can tell that Geralt’s choice was out of concern for neither himself nor Roach. Geralt’s back is ramrod straight and his fists are clenched in the reins. Trotting isn’t known as a particularly gentle or relaxing gait, and Jaskier shakes his head at Geralt’s stupidity.

But, since it’s obvious that Geralt’s willing to hurt himself to avoid questions such as these, Jaskier opts to delay further questioning. Plus, Geralt can’t run away as effectively if Jaskier waits until they make camp.

*****

The fire is burning brightly and he and Geralt are huddled close to the flames to keep out the cold. Geralt doesn’t shiver, but his hands get stiff, and Jaskier watches as Geralt seemingly tries to thaw them over the fire, his fingers still bent up from holding the reins. 

“Is it a witcher thing or a you thing?” Jaskier asks.

At first Jaskier thinks that he’s spoken too softly, though Geralt’s hearing is of course better than that of any human, and then Jaskier decides that Geralt is simply ignoring the question. 

“It’s me,” Geralt finally answers.

“Why are you different?” Jaskier asks.

“The same reason I’m different from the other witchers. I passed through more trials, I have more mutations. One of those mutations means that I have a lower body temperature so when it gets cold, I get cold,” Geralt says simply.

“All your old hurts and all your joints start to ache and get stiff, don’t they?” 

“Mmm,” Geralt growls, but he nods his head too. 

“And that’s why you go back to the Kaer Moren every fall, then. To overwinter in the keep, like some fair weather migrating bird,” Jaskier says.

“All witchers go back in the winter. It’s just that my need to return is more pressing than theirs,” Geralts explains. 

Jaskier nods and looks at his own hands, his long fingers stretching out easily towards the warmth of the fire. “Can I help?” 

Geralt pauses a minute and then pulls his hands back from the fire. “No. Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

*****

The next day and the one after that are slow. Geralt gets up slowly, packs slowly, rides slowly, and breaks early. Jaskier brings up the possibility of helping once more and again Geralt rides off without him, and this time it takes Jaskier two hours to catch up, by which point Geralt is already off Roach and is loosening the cinch. Jaskier shakes his head and sets his things down to go find firewood. 

The next day, though, they come to a town, and not just any town, but a town with an inn. They combine their coin and get a small room with a single bed. Jaskier doesn’t really care about the bed; he’s been sleeping on piles of twigs and leaves for weeks. A floor actually sounds rather appealing since he won’t wake at midnight to find a small rock has embedded itself in his right kidney while he slept. But above all, the room has a tiny furnace complete with a stack of firewood large enough to burn the whole night. 

As soon as his things are stowed safely in the room, Jaskier heads into town with his empty rucksack. Good quality oil is acquired easily enough, perfumed with chamomile no less. From there Jaskier heads to the river. He putters about in the frigid waters, hunting up nice round stones of a good weight and stowing them in his bag. Finally, when Jaskier doubts the integrity of the bag and his ability to tote it back into town and up the stairs at the inn, Jaskier finishes up and heads back. 

Of course Geralt is nowhere to be seen, probably rustling up a job to pay for food for themselves and Roach, so Jaskier has the room to himself. First, he carefully stows the oil, and then he moves on to the rocks, setting them atop the little furnace and starting a low burning fire. Like Jaskier after his chilly dip into the local waters, the rocks need time to gently warm, too. 

Geralt returns mid-afternoon, creaking and groaning from the pain of his excursions. 

“Jaskier, why do you have all those rocks?” Geralt asks from the doorway.

“Oh, do come in and close the door, Geralt. We’re in an inn, you know,” Jaskier reminds him. “The rocks have a purpose, dear witcher. Now please, if you’re quite done running errands, do take off your clothes.”

Geralt shuts the door a tad more forcefully than is necessary and lifts an eyebrow at Jaskier. “I am not having sex with you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier huffs, affronted. “Geralt of Rivia. If I was going to proposition you, it would hardly be with a pile of rocks and a cheap bottle of chamomile scented oil. Furthermore, I am not offering to have sex with you, though I am undoubtedly the best lover in this entire flea-ridden village. Now, can we get on with this please? I got quite cold trying to get you these rocks and I’d like for that effort not to go to waste.”

Geralt props his swords up in the corner and begins trying to shed his armor, though the laces give him trouble. Jaskier is uninterested in watching more of Geralt’s arthritic fumblings and begins to loosen the laces himself, despite Geralt’s protests. It’s far from the first time that Jaskier has helped Geralt out of his armor and clothing over the years. Tending to injuries has necessitated a bit of trust, something Geralt is still not well practiced in, but Jaskier has managed to somehow work around and with Geralt’s many idiosyncrasies. Soon enough, Geralt is down to his small clothes.

“Lie down,” Jaskier directs, waving his hand towards the bed. “Face down if you will.”

Geralt pauses a moment to glare at Jaskier but then turns and does as he’s asked. Jaskier retrieves the oil and sets it on the nightstand, wrapping it in a warm towel. Then, one by one, Jaskier begins to set the warmed rocks on Geralt’s neck, his back, his buttocks, thighs, and calves. He even has a smaller rock for each hand so that Geralt can slip them into his palms where his hands are curled in like talons. 

“Just let the heat do its thing, Geralt. I’m going to start working on your feet,” Jaskier says.

Geralt doesn’t respond, but when Jaskier digs his fingers into Geralt’s heel, he groans. Jaskier works his fingers, slender but strong after years playing the lute, into the thick ropes of tissue in Geralt’s feet and legs. Some of it makes Geralt moan like a cheap whore, some of it makes him swear at every deity Jaskier’s ever heard of and some he hasn’t. 

After a while, Jaskier replaces the rocks on the furnace and while they’re rewarming, he opens the oil, pouring a goodly amount into his palm. Geralt’s back is a mess — scars intersecting other scars, rivers of scar tissue running as deep as Jaskier can dig into Geralt’s body, a broken shoulder blade that healed at a slight angle, muscles twisted and knotted like old gnarled trees that have clung to the sides of mountains out of sheer determination and spite rather than health — it’s more than Jaskier can even attempt to alleviate in one afternoon. 

But despite the enormity of Geralt’s musculoskeletal injuries and abuses, Geralt seems completely euphoric with Jaskier’s work. His eyes are closed and he’s relaxed on the bed in a way that he never lets go, sinking mindlessly into the straw mattress. 

Jaskier works until his hands ache and his fingers begin to go numb. He’d continue if his hands would at all cooperate, but Jaskier knows defeat when it is upon him. “I think my hands are pretty much done for, Geralt. Does this help at all?”

Geralt turns his head towards Jaskier and smiles. “Thank you. I feel… good.”

“I know once we’re out on the road again it won’t last, but I figured that for tonight…” Jaskier shrugs.

Geralt nods. “Thank you, Jaskier,” he says again. 

It’s nice to be able to help for once. It’s not something Jaskier gets to often do as witchers don’t need a particularly large amount of help with things in general. But beyond that, it’s nice that Geralt would even let Jaskier help, that he trusted Jaskier enough to allow it. 

Jaskier feels oddly warm as he takes in Geralt’s now sleeping figure. But it must just be the stove. In any case, Jaskier settles in on the floor to enjoy an afternoon nap. He’ll have to perform tonight if they’d like to eat and he’s quite tired. Jaskier wraps his hands in warm rags to prevent them from stiffening and passes out on the wooden floor.


End file.
